‘Quail and Confections:’ Lessons in political civility from 1888 Jessamine County

Some weeks before the 1888 election, 15 politicians from Nicholasville made a friendly wager. If Grover Cleveland, the Democratic candidate for president, won, the Republicans would foot the bill for a banquet of reconciliation. If Benjamin Harrison, the Republican candidate, won, the Democrats would pay.

On the Saturday evening after a very tense political contest, they all converged on Hotel Nicholas. As promised, the losing Democrats served up “everything good that you could think of.” The sumptuous feast included venison, grouse, quail, oysters, celery, ice creams, confections, and cakes. The Jessamine Journal reported that the champagne, enjoyed over toasts and fine conversation, was “somewhat exhilarating.” It was early Sunday morning by the time the dining room was empty.

Can you imagine Trump and Biden—or Matt Bevin and Andy Beshear—dining over quail and confections? Not me. But this kind of civility persisted well into the late 20th century.

What has changed? Why has rancorous polarization has set in with such intensity? Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt says it’s because politicians don’t hang out anymore. Before the 1990s, Democrats and Republicans went to church together. They drank together in D.C. pubs after work. Their wives played bridge together. Their kids went to the same private schools. “It’s difficult to call somebody a nasty name when your kid and their kid are in the Cub Scouts together,” says Emanuel Cleaver, a Democrat from Missouri.

But political practices have changed in ways that limit civility. Closed primaries tend to select fringe candidates. Gerrymandering creates partisan districts. Fundraising pressures encourage politicians to live in their home districts rather than move to Washington. On one hand, this may keep them more responsive to their constituents. On the other hand, it keeps senators and representatives from forming bonds across party aisles.

Indeed, many of them simply do not know each other. “The only time I see a Republican,” said Cleaver last year, “is when I come up here (to the Capitol) to vote. Or go to a committee hearing.” It’s easy to construct an out group when the only things you know about that group come from FOX or MSNBC.

I don’t want to romanticize the good old days. In the 1980s, privileged senators, nearly all of them white men, ruled the country from Capitol Hill and then slipped away to sleep and golf in Georgetown and Arlington. In the 1880s, most Kentucky politicians looked the other way during a spate of racial lynchings. It was no accident that “the coloreds,” one of the few printable words the Jessamine Journal used to describe African Americans back then, were not invited to this political dinner. In this era of Jim Crow, they weren’t even allowed inside Hotel Nicholas as guests. There were profound limits to the hospitality of this white supremacist men’s club.

Moreover, political tension is not entirely bad. One of the reasons there is tension is because this is the most diverse Congress in American history. That’s a good thing.

But tension does not preclude civility. Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Antonin Scalia were ideological enemies. They were also opera buddies. Inspired by the memories of these Supreme Court justices and 19th-century politicians from Jessamine County, is it possible to imagine a nation—or better yet, a town or a state or a world—in which civility extends across racial, sexual, political, and religious lines? When COVID-19 is over, let’s once again gather together over quail and confections. Conservatives might douse the quail with ketchup, and liberals might substitute tofu. But that’s ok. We can still eat together.

David R. Swartz teaches history at Asbury University.